


Pretzels

by Hormonal_Trashbag



Series: Home is Where the Heart is [5]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hormonal_Trashbag/pseuds/Hormonal_Trashbag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben comes home to Rey lazing on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretzels

**Author's Note:**

> Just something short and sweet because I needed to write something happy.

Rey doesn’t turn her head away from the murmuring television at the clicks of a turning key at the front door. She shoves her hand back into the oversized barrel of pretzels resting in her lap, munching on salty sticks, staring at an awkward angle at the screen, displaying a documentary on British castles in high definition.

Ben stomps in, though not because he’s angry. She thinks he simply can’t help it. His body is too long, too broad for him to walk in silence, though it isn’t for lack of trying. They’ve had complaints from the neighbors in the unit directly below them. She spares him a short look, long enough to see the gym bag slung over his shoulder, before returning her gaze to the television.

“Hey,” she greets through another mouthful of pretzels.

He dumps the bag at the kitchen table and makes his way to the couch. Rey shifts the container of pretzels aside when he crouches down to kiss her. She crinkles her nose in undisguised disgust.

“You smell gross,” she accuses, shoving his chest with a laugh.

He snickers back, his voice a lilting tease, “So do you.”

“I do not!” she exaggerates her indignation, which does nothing to deter the onslaught of his lips, or the casual prodding of his tongue.

He gives a humming grunt. “Why are you eating pretzels? You have cardboard-breath.”

“Go take a shower,” she replies, “I’m not letting you on the couch until you do.”

Her strict tone rings false, but he whines anyway, kneeling between the couch and the coffee table. His too-large hands smooth up her thighs, the tips of his fingers sneaking under the hem of the boxers she had pilfered from his dresser drawer earlier.

“Don’t wanna.”

 _“Go,”_ she repeats, laughing once more. “I’m nice and clean. I don’t want you rubbing all your sweat off on me.”

“Maybe I want to rub all my sweat off on you,” he says, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Rey snorts. “I mean it, Ben. Go take a shower.”

Perhaps a bit too dramatically, he sighs, slinking to his feet.

“Fine,” he moans, “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Good,” she sniggers, nudging at his stomach with a socked foot. “Now move already. I can’t see the TV.”

His response is to blow raspberries. She watches as he does as he was told, however, smirking when she takes in his overplayed pout.

Ben returns within ten minutes, hair still damp, a pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Their couch is small, at least to someone with his height, and when he tugs her towards him, she doesn’t resist, though Rey knows half the reason he’s moving her is because he can stretch out his legs without her as an obstacle.

She relaxes into the familiar warmth of him against her back, and is unsurprised when an errant hand slips under the elastic band of her stolen boxers. His palm simply cups the mound of of her sex, holding her without delving his misbehaved fingers any deeper, though Rey is never one to object.

He leans his face forward, resting his chin in the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his lips briefly brushing against the length of her throat. Then he is slipping a single finger through her folds, meeting so little resistance that the digit glides into her slit lower lips.

His chest rumbles; he is pleased.

“You were touching yourself earlier,” he mumbles.

Rey nods, confirming his statement under her breath, “I had a bath when I got home from work.”

“Without me?” he asks, teasingly affronted. They know very well that their apartment’s tub was much too small to accommodate them both, though attempts had certainly been made.

Rey sighs as he easily thrusts two fingers into her slick warmth, and it’s a soft, languishing sound. The accented voice from the television drawls on about the Tower of London, but she’s distracted by the quiet squelches and his breath in her ear and the stiff heat of his erection as it presses into her backside as an insistent reminder of his own needs.

She plans to tend to him later.

He’s adjusting her hips, opening her further to him, his free hand snaking under her t-shirt to caress the small swell of her breast, his stroking fingers slow yet steady as they slide against the sensitive, cushioned roof of her center. He is avoiding her clitoris in an attempt to draw this out, but Rey lacks his leisure patience.

 _“Ben,”_ she complains, her voice debauched and ragged.

He knows what he does to her, and she feels his grin pressed to the skin below her ear.

“Do you need something, sweetheart?”

This amuses him, that much is clear, and she hates the pet name, a fact he is conscious of. She almost demands he bury his face between her thighs and fuck her with his tongue to compensate for it.

He relents though, the rough pad of his thumb flicking against her clit in a lazy motion. Ben repeats this, gradually adding more and more pressure, until she’s a sopping mess of broken groans. She doesn’t care how desperate it must look, her hips lurch up with every probe of his fingers, her body in search of a greater friction.

“What do you want?” he asks in a low tone, disregarding the frantic reeling of her hips against his too-slow hand.

She pleads, “Faster.”

Rey cries out when he gives her exactly what she wants, her thighs shaking as his fingers pump into her at a pace her shallow rocks can’t meet, though she tries so hard to keep up. He is relentless, rubbing her into oblivion, and the indecent sounds of his fingers thrashing through her slippery sex overpowered only by her symphonic wails and sighs.

“Come for me,” he mumbles, the hand he has on her breast squeezing.

She does, her inner muscles fluttering and squeezing until everything bursts and arches away from his chest as she’s submersed in the pleasure of orgasm. He works his fingers through it, elongating the blinding moment for her, until she lets out an actual scream.

He chuckles into her hair as she slumps against him, spent. He’s hard, impossibly heavy against her bottom.

“We do have neighbors, you know,” Ben taunts, “They probably think I’ve murdered you.”

“They know very well what you do to me,” she grumbles back, eyes lazily shifting the the television.

There’s a painting of Anne Boleyn on the screen, though Rey has no idea what the documentary is droning on about. She decides to turn to Ben instead, his erection now crushed against her stomach.

He observes as she yanks her--his--boxers down and lifts herself up and over him.

“Is it my turn?” he snickers.

She grinds down on him as an answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
